


Blown Away

by Taffia



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Act II, Blow Me Away, Breaking Benjamin, City Elves, DA2, Following Fate, Gen, Kirkwall, Llomerryn, Qunari, Rivain, character backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taffia/pseuds/Taffia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. To be Qunari is to know purpose. To fulfill that purpose is to have honor. What does one do when that honor is suddenly stripped away?  Warrior and retriever, this is the story of he who finds what is lost.  Companion piece to Following Fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blown Away

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is a stand-alone companion piece to Following Fate. It is the backstory for Taarbas and only that. There MAY be spoilers for upcoming events in the actual fanfic, but nothing so serious or mind-blowing (at least in my head...I could be wrong about this). I wrote this because my muses refused to let me do much else, so...if you don't want spoilers, it's probably best to bookmark this for another time. If you don't care about that sort of thing and just want to go GLEE all over Taarbas in all his Qunari goodness, I am going to be the absolute last person to stop you. :)
> 
> The story is framed with the lyrics from Breaking Benjamin's "Blow Me Away", one of the main themes of the game Halo 2.

**Blown Away**

 **  
**

_They form a line, one at a time, ready to play._

 _I can't see them, anyway_.

Every day, Kithshok watched the goings on in the Docks below, his feet spread, his arms crossed over this broad and firm chest. His silver-gray eyes took in each and every body that moved about, every human, every elf, every dwarf that was curiously afraid of the vast expanse of blue sky. He would pull his arms in tighter. The wind was always so cold here, colder in the Qunari compound where there was no wall to protect them from what blew in off the sea. It was not their native tropical Par Vollen. This was something else, and the cold made the corruption of the local _bas_ appear all the worse.

Since their unintended arrival some weeks before, there had been the occasional...incident. The locals did not take too kindly to a Qunari presence of any sort, and the Arishok had instructed his _antaam_ to hold, to turn the other cheek for the time being, as it were. They were here for a specific purpose. They were not here to antagonize or convert. A shame. As Kithshok glanced from body to body, soul to soul, that speckled the ground far beneath him, all he saw were those in need of desperate guidance.

None moreso than the loud and obnoxious dwarf that stood in the Arishok's court, now. Dirty blond and hairy, the stout little man paced as noisily as he complained. He railed against the _karasten_ posted at the base of the stairs, the _sten_ at the head. He shook his fist periodically at the doorway the Arishok had retreated to after their last pointless discussion. His patience was as short as his stature.

He finally stopped when another entered. Kithshok even allowed himself to turn around a little to see what was going on when he heard the dwarf's wretched voice shift from irritated to elated.

"Ah! Here she is!"

What Kithshok saw was a woman of average height for a human, blazing red hair pulled into a bun as practical as her plate armor. A sword and shield were strapped to her back. Odd. So, was she actually a woman, then, or was this just a very confused man? A woman who thought herself a man was a dangerous force, indeed. This whole city was confused, he decided. A confused muddle of corruption and vice that he was glad he had no true place in. He watched the woman a moment more as she approached the stairs leading to the Arishok's throne...then returned his gaze out to sea.

 

 _No time to lose, we've got to move._

 _Steady your hand. I am losing sight again._

 _  
_

Several times, he saw that woman come and go from the Qunari Compound. Always she was here to see the Arishok, to speak to him, and after a little while, to try to learn from him. Kithshok's ears always perked when she came. He knew the sound of her steps before she had even made it through the gate, the clank of her armor, the firm fullness of her voice. She would always bring the curious elf with her, the one with the silver markings. He knew the Qun, could speak the tongue of the Qunari. The woman was wise enough to use him in any negotiations she had with the Arishok, aiming only for the utmost respect in their dealings.

It turned into a benefit for all of them when the Arishok had, truly, needed her help in a matter that he could not touch. But she could. He had sworn that the Qunari would do nothing in this city, that they were here for only one thing and that nothing else mattered. When the decoy recipe for _gaatlok_ had been stolen, seemingly by the infuriating dwarf, the human warrior was the best option to deal with the mess. Serah Hawke, her title was. What it meant, he didn't know, but it clearly implied that she was capable.

And she had been.

The matter was dealt with quickly and quietly. There were minimal casualties. An elf had led the theft and the resulting chaos, and the Qunari managed to squeak by without blame so far as the City Guard had been concerned. They remained an issue, but they could not be found at fault, not with the voice of Serah Hawke speaking on their behalf.

But that, coupled with the murdered _karataam_ and missing _saarebas,_ was but another strike against the blighted place, the thousands of people who served no purpose and merely squealed like _imekari_ with hands out and palms up, waiting for bread or water or useless coin when they had done nothing to earn it. Qunari did not understand poverty. But that did not mean that they couldn't identify its unbearable taint.

The sand was trickling through the hourglass. The smell was in the air. Unease. Rebellion. The Viscount's son had been slain. Justice had been dealt, but the hounds were loosed. The next time Serah Hawke came to the Compound, it was with a small contingent of the City Guard.

And the Arishok's patience had run out.

 

 _Fire your guns, it's time to roll._

 _Blow me away—I will stay in the mess I made._

 _  
_

The cleansing of the city had been swift and simple. The _bas_ were nothing against the Qunari war machine, and even their unchained _saarebas_ were easily delt with, slaughtered like weakling _dathrasi_. The strategy was sound: round up any of rank and hold them inside the Viscount's Keep. They didn't even have to try. The foolish _bas_ did all the work for them, barricading themselves inside, but a few tables and chairs were nothing against a battering ram of kossith warriors. The women screamed. The men screamed like the women. The Viscount, the leader of them all, their figurehead and bastion of political strength, cowered. The Arishok personally dealt with him, lopping off his head with a purposeful swipe of his sword.

"Here is your Viscount!" he proclaimed to them, tossing the dead man's useless head into the crowded rabble.

The _bas_ immediately began to direct their cries at him, accusing him of starting a war, heaping blame upon him that was irrelevant and self-serving. Any that dared were quickly silenced in the most effective manner. One _karashok_ felt a broken neck spoke more volumes than any voice ever could.

"Look at you," the Arishok went on. "Like fat _dathrasi_ you feed and feed, and complain only when your feeding is interrupted. You do not look up. You do not see that the grass is bare. All you leave in your wake is misery. You are blind. I will _make_ you see."

The great doors at the far end of the room slammed open, kicked by a woman's heavily booted foot. Kithshok snapped his attention over and found himself unsurprised to see Serah Hawke striding into the room with her companions, the eloquent elf, the talkative dwarf, the captain of the city guard. She had promised the relic. He could see no sign of it in her gauntleted hands.

"But we have guests," the Arishok continued, his tone almost cordial and conversational as he descended the carpeted stone steps to greet her. He called her _basalit-an_ for only she was worthy of honor in this pit of vipers. She was about to speak and explain herself when another strode in. The thief. The one they had long sought. The one they chased into the storm in an effort to get the relic in the first place. She had the book under her arm and a smirk on her face. Serah Hawke was oddly glad to see her.

The Tome was thus returned, the Arishok taking it into his hands for inspection before nodding to Kithshok. He stepped forward obediently, taking the precious thing with a deep bow of reverence—not for his superior but for the wisdom with which he had just been entrusted.

What happened after should not have surprised him. The Arishok demanded the thief as well that she might serve penance for her crime. Serah Hawke refused, claiming friendship and loyalty. She offered herself in place of the _basra vashedan_. Kithshok stopped in his tracks from where he had been walking away, headed back to his own _karataam_. He turned, eyes narrowing in curiosity behind the slits of his black iron helmet. The woman was resolute, determined, her chin raised in defiance as she stared back into the Arishok's heavy gaze.

The challenge was laid. Serah Hawke's life for that of the thief, but not in the way the woman had anticipated, surely. Kithshok could see the surprise in her posture when she was challenged to a _tal-shok_ , a duel of honor to the death, and her opponent would be the Arishok himself.

But the greatest shock was yet to come.

After long minutes of clashing steel and the grunts and taunts of combat, the Arishok, the greatest warrior of all the Qunari, lay dead. The red-haired woman stood over him, strands of ember having fallen from their bindings and covering her eyes. Were those tears that glittered? Was that scream that came after one of victory...or pure anguish?

 

 _After the fall, we'll shake it off._

 _Show me the way._

 _  
_

They vacated quickly. No Qunari ships had come, but they had their choice of vessels at the Docks. With the Tome of Koslun tucked securely under his arm, Kithshok issued orders to the remaining warriors. Given his rank, he was acting Arishok until the military and remaining Triumvirate appointed a new one. There were few who would think to question him as he took the lead. He had the age. He had the experience. He had the strength to best any of them.

But there was one who doubted. One who aspired. One whose soul had blackened from his extended stay in this cesspit of a city.

"Vashkata, you were ordered to remain with the second _karataam_."

"I know, Kithshok." The rogue stepped right up next to him, golden eyes shining, woven armor stained with blood that looked black in the ambient light of the many fires.

"Then perform your duty."

"I am, Kithshok. My duty is for the betterment of all Qunari."

And the blade bit deep into his back. Kithshok howled with the pain, the others already aboard the ships but looking over the rails to see what was going on. The Tome fell to the ground. As he yanked his weapon free, Vashkata claimed _tal-shok_ to prevent any others from interfering and baited his superior to attack him.

Hissing with the pain and effort, Kithshok brought forth his sword and shield and laid into his opponent as best he could. Breathing was hard. He even felt like he was drowning, drowning in his own blood. The fight could not last long. He did what he could to assault the betrayer, attempting to knock him back with a mighty shove, but the power was simply not there. Instead, he fell to his knees, collapsing to the dust of the Kirkwall Docks, blood leaking from the wound in his back and from between his slightly parted lips. His eyes stared ahead, clouding, glassy.

Vashkata stepped lightly over him and picked up the Tome.

"They will name me Arishok," he declared lowly, knowing the fallen warrior could still hear. "And you will forever be denied Par Vollen." He glanced back at the city—the burning rubble and _basra_ stink—with an almost whimsical expression. "That is, unless you can do the impossible. Yes, Qunari. Should you survive, here, nameless, half-dead...you are denied Par Vollen unless you can retrieve the souls of all our fallen. All of them. And there were so very many. Our _friend_ , that _vashedan_ Serah Hawke, saw to that herself. I watched her...cutting so many of us down, oh yes." He knelt, his whispering breath hot against Kithshok's ear. "The only rank you are fit for, Qunari, is _taarbas_. The retriever of _things_." He spat the word like potent venom. "And I leave you with this understanding: I have stripped you of all honor, in front of your peers, in front of your _karataam_. And all of Qunandar will know of it. You had tried to take the Tome for yourself, I will tell them. And none will be there to doubt me."

And he stood and walked away.

Kithshok...now Taarbas...lay helpless, bleeding, time passing as slow as agony as he watched the acquired ships sail out between the Twins and set course to Par Vollen.

Par Vollen. The home he would never see again.

 

 _There's nothing left, so save your breath._

 _Lying in wait, caught inside this tidal wave._

 _  
_

The shame consumed him body and soul. The shortest fight in his life had proven to be the most costly, and there was a part of him that would never recover. Elven dock hands found him, hid him, healed him. For long weeks, he lay in a hovel in the Alienage as an older elven woman redressed his wound, fed him medicines, and made him drink water.

He wished they had simply left him to die. Didn't they know? He was worthless, now. Demoted. Honorless. Forgotten. It mattered not that the means were underhanded. What mattered is what the Ariqun thought. What she _knew_. And all she would know is what the _karataam_ would tell her.

Despite his thoughts, his depression, he recovered quickly and quite well. There was a soreness, a tenderness, through his ribcage if he over-extended himself. And he could not do much by way of labor for very long before he was tired and winded, but he did what he could. To repay the elves that saved him, he assisted in rebuilding the Alienage. It had been largely untouched after the Arishok declared war on the city, but he could not see how even its normal state was in any way _passable_ as habitation.

He almost forgot himself in the rebuilding, the elves so happy to have him that he started to see them not as _bas_ but as equals. When he caught his mind beginning to wander, to begin to think more like an elf than a Qunari, he quickly did what he could to rectify the issue. There was no Ben-Hassrath or _tamassran_ for him to turn to. In their absence, he took to reciting the Qun to himself. Every day, every hour, he dedicated a part of his mind to always reminding him of his beliefs, of his roots.

" _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun_." Over and over and over, unending, unceasing, like the waves crashing into shore as they were meant to, the ocean remaining changeless.

The ocean. He began to go to work with the dock hands once the anti-Qunari fervor in the city died down. It kept him busy, kept him moving. The elven woman taking care of him had advised he keep to smaller tasks just to keep his body limber but to never overstrain. The wound was deep, she said, and it would remain tender for a long time. There was no telling if he would ever actually fully heal, not without magic, at least, and Taarbas had made it clear that such a thing was not an option. But working at the docks gave him more than just a job that was physically good for him. It kept him by the water, right at the ocean's edge, and simply seeing that vast expanse of water gave him all the link back that he needed. To him, the ocean became the Qun.

 

 _Your cover's blown, nowhere to go, holding your fate._

 _Loaded, I will walk alone._

 _  
_

Peace can only last for so long. It simply cannot exist without conflict. That is the way of things. It is to be. _Asit tal-eb_. Taarbas reminded himself of this the day slavers showed up in the Alienage. Tevinter scum, led by a _bas-saarebas_ , proud and unchained. The Qunari had been awoken by cries and screams, mothers reaching for their children, their husbands. Children crying as they were yanked away from their families. He had seen this happen before. He had watched, emotionless, from his perch in the Qunari Compound for all those months, as he watched people loaded onto ships, crowded like swine and to be sold as such. His kind had never gotten on with Tevinter and looked down upon their form of slavery...stealing people merely to use for labor instead of teaching them, enlightening them, giving them their true purpose, and setting them free.

He had been unable to act in the days when the Qunari had no quarrel with Kirkwall. He was no longer living in such times. Like a slave reborn into the Qun, he was free. And he would use that freedom to preserve that of those who had risked so much to save his life and give him a purpose.

His morning began by stabbing the commanding _bas-saarebas_ in the neck with a dull shiv. The man cried out, clutching at the weapon as his life spurted away like so much blood. How the creature's bodyguards had ignored him as he stepped from his hovel and up behind the mage, Taarbas knew not, but they all failed in their duty. There was no denying that. With a shout of alarm, they turned on him, weapons drawn and shields at the ready. To them, he was unarmed, but he had more at his disposal than a simple shiv.

Reaching out quickly, he yanked a support pole out from under it's tarpaulin, surprising the elven shopkeeper to whom it belonged. It would make a serviceable enough weapon. Taarbas gave a shout in Qunari and charged, knowing that this fight was little more than variation on committing suicide. He could deal with that. Fighting Tevinter soldiers was an honorable death, and he had already instructed the elves on what to do should such a thing occur.

The soldiers quickly encircled him, jabbing out with their blades to keep him on the defensive. He let them have their fun. When he was ready, he spun. He kept his staff high while he ducked down, the length of wood clattering into several heads that weren't fast enough to get out of the way. It added chaos to the circle, and Taarbas dove for the first opening available. Moving, always moving, he used that staff like it was an extension of himself, like it were little different than a sword in his hand, the sword he was now unworthy to carry and remained sheathed beneath his cot. His Bassrath-Kata, his _asala_. Until his honor was restored, an eight-foot length of hardwood would have to do.

He hadn't fought with a staff since the years of his initial training as _karashok_. That was decades behind him, but one never forgets the instincts trained in boyhood. The truth was, the Tevinter had been unprepared for a properly trained warrior to come up against him, and those that weren't knocked unconscious or killed ran off. Up the Alienage steps and deep into Lowtown, wherever it is they went, Taarbas didn't care. The important thing was, they left.

"Get rid of the bodies," he instructed some of the more able-bodied men. "Throw them over that ledge if necessary—the one that plummets deep below Darktown. Whatever you do with them, make sure the Guard never find out."

City elves don't need instruction on how to hide a crime, no matter how just the intentions or outcome. Dead bodies were dead bodies. Assault was assault. In the Kirkwall court of law, humans always won. That had never been more evident than when the Guard Captain had challenged the Arishok over two elves who had merely sought justice for their sister. They punished a human rapist, yet _they_ were the criminals.

And if disposing of these bodies protected their current Qunari savior, they would walk into the Void to do so if need be.

It was of little use. Urchins planted throughout the market as spies caught sight of the City Guard approaching the Alienage. The Tevinters had complained, claiming a legitimate business transaction had been interrupted, merchandise stolen. The word "Qunari" had been dropped more than once. The elves didn't need to be told twice. Moving quickly, a small group of them gathered up Taarbas and his few possessions and shuttled him off to the Docks by way of the sewers. He would not be safe in the city, not anymore if ever he had been. The dock hands that had initially saved him knew of a ship or two that would get him out with no questions asked...so long as he didn't mind pirates and a short exile in Llomerryn.

Part of his mind that remained bitter from Vashkata's betrayal taunted him. Fate was a fickle friend, it said, this tiny little voice that sounded like a squeaky Chantry door. Give up. Give in. Abandon what purpose you have left and spit in Fate's eye.

But Fate didn't have eyes. _Choice is an illusion in an ocean of souls_. _The tide rises...the tide falls..._

He saw that ocean immediately when they emerged from the dank sewers and back into the daylight. The sweet salty smell, the cries of gulls overhead, the soft ringing of ship's bells as the massive forms rocked in the gentle waves. He was stealthily shuttled to one in particular, the captain a flamboyantly dressed man with dark skin and black hair. Taarbas had seen his kind before. Rivaini. Probably the only nation in the world that didn't hate or fear his kind on sight.

Something was exchanged. Coin. Some sort of heirloom. Taarbas couldn't see, but he knew it couldn't be much. These elves were giving the man everything they had on them that was precious just to make sure the Qunari got to safety, wherever that was. The Rivaini looked from what lay in his dusky palm to Taarbas' impassive face...and nodded a single time.

They left with the tide.

 

 _Only the strongest will survive. Lead me to Heaven when we die._

 _I am a shadow on the wall._

 _I'll be the one to save us all._

 _  
_

The pirate settlement of Llomerryn was not the sort of thing Taarbas considered an "enjoyable experience." While his ship companions, men from all over the world and rather boisterous in their behavior, drank their coin away in tavern after tavern, he would keep to the shoreline. Often, he walked along the northern beaches, those that let him look at the distant expanse of Rivain and his native Par Vollen that he knew was just beyond. When the wind blew from the north, he would stop and inhale deeply. First, he savored the feeling of his damaged lung filling with air again, air instead of phlegm or blood. After, he imagined he smelled the rich incense the priests burned in the prayer temples, to food that was cooked in the open market, the spices, the perfumes. He closed his eyes and remembered the buildings, the pyramids, the domes. He remembered his brothers. He remembered the women.

But when he opened his eyes again and was greeted by the palm-fronded shores of Rivain, he felt nothing but disappointment. _Hissra_. Illusions. He needed to stop indulging such things if he was ever to remain sane.

There were many Tal-Vashoth on the island, always changing as they hired on to crews or came ashore on leave. Taarbas avoided them as much as he could, keeping himself out of the city proper. His wanderings had taken him deeper inland at one point, and it was there that he chanced upon something he had certainly not expected to see. There was a large encampment. An encampment populated by elves. His heart leaped in his chest, both with joy and sorrow, when he remembered those souls that had saved him from death and wallowing in his own shame.

An encounter with their hunter guard was all he needed to realize that these elves, these Dalish, were not those elves, not _his_ elves. For _basra_ , the elves of the city had been as akin to his Qunari brothers as he would ever find. These elves, though not completely inhospitable, made it clear that they were not interested in housing refugees (implying Tal-Vashoth) or Qunari warlords. Trying to convince them that he was neither got him a hot meal but little else.

After a few months of living the life of a hermit, even going so far as to having his own hut on the edge of the settlement, Taarbas tired of living wallowing in sorrow. He had been told there was a way to get his honor back. All he had to do was embrace that he was now _taarbas_...and not _kithshok_. It meant commissioning a ship. It meant returning to Kirkwall. It meant finding hundreds of swords.

And it meant, one day, coming to terms with his past.

Finding the ship was simple enough. There were always smugglers heading in the direction of Kirkwall if not directly there. He paid his way in coin he had earned through odd jobs and otherwise kept to himself. The Kirkwall he returned to was not much changed from the one he left. He was no longer wanted by the guards, as the elves of the Alienage happily told him, but the sighting of a Qunari had sparked some unsettled ire in citizens of Darktown. The ship that brought him was burnt in the night.

Taarbas immediately turned his mind to his task. The swords. The souls of his brothers. There were so many, and after so much time, it was guaranteed that they were scattered, looted, lost. He did not know where to begin. But that was irrelevant. He knew his purpose. He had his duty. His choice was to perform it or not. To begin or not.

He glanced at the ocean, listened to the waves. He smiled. _Choice is an illusion in an ocean of souls_. And Kirkwall was a very big ocean. There was no choice but to begin.

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

But he would begin.


End file.
